The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  “I was married at eighteen to a blond-haired man named Rol. He lived at the other end of my childhood village, and we grew up together. We were married for three months before he went off with the other village men to raid an Elsh monastery across the Quell Sea—they still raided back then, for there was still gold in those stone abbeys.”

  Siggy had a clear, striking voice and an elegant, tall way of sitting that drew your eyes right to her. I would have been captivated even if this weren’t a rare personal tale.

  “Rol’s blue eyes danced when he kissed me good-bye, his hand on my belly. He swore to bring me back a gold cross, one he could melt down into a brooch for my cloak.

  “He never came home. I gave birth, and the child died. I set off west, determined to find something, anything, that would bring meaning back into my life. I imagined bribing the Sea Witches to take me in. I dreamed of crossing the Quell and wandering Elshland and finding the lost city of the Green Women. I dreamed many things.

  “But then I met Iona one summer during a Night Market in the town of Leer. Her black hair was the same shade as her dazzling Mercy-cloak. She was gentle and fearless. I was half-wild from months of wandering Vorseland alone with no purpose. We would spend the next several decades roaming together, eating together, killing together, living coin to coin, death to death.

  “One winter night, Iona went for a walk when she couldn’t sleep. She was attacked by a pack of starving wolves at the edge of Lake Gead. I tried to save her, but she was bleeding on the inside and beyond help. She begged me to kill her. I gave her Blue Seed and held her as she slipped away.”

  I turned to the fire, away from Siggy’s gaze. Her voice had gone hoarse with emotion. I gave her privacy until she overcame her sorrow. “How did you bear it?”

  “I did what I had to do.” She paused. “When I die, Iona will pass out of living memory. I wanted to take on a young apprentice back then, but she was content with it just being the two of us.”

  I glanced toward her and saw that she was calm and composed. “Are you glad you met Iona?”

  Siggy shrugged, strong, slender shoulders lifting to her ears. “Together we met life head-on. And later, death. We had a good run of it.”

  I thought about this conversation many times after Siggy died.

  She’d slipped on ice and broken her hip the previous fall. She couldn’t walk, and she was in pain. Runa held her tight while I cut her wrists just as she’d taught us in those long, dark nights by the fire. Two swift, clean cuts through delicate skin, blue veins opening to red.

  I gave her a drink of fresh, clean water while Juniper whispered a dying poem in her ear.

  We were Mercies.

  Siggy, never sentimental in life, became sentimental in death. That was the way of it, sometimes.

  “I wish Rol had come back,” she said to me, one hand on her heart, one hand on my arm.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “I wish I could have gazed upon one of the trolls that live in the far north. I wish I could have seen a giant snow bear, fresh from a kill. I wish Iona and I could have spent our last years in a warm stone hut by the sea. I wish I could have met the Sea Witches and seen the Scorch Trees.”

  “Yes.”

  Our Mercy mentor took her last breath.

  We set her on a hastily made pyre of pine branches and watched as her soul was swept up to Holhalla on the flames.

  * * *

  I shook as I climbed the Scorch Tree, Trigve’s voice urging me higher and higher. I looked over my shoulder only once. I saw black trees, white sand, and blue water.

  I grabbed the last rung, fingers closing around the wood, and pulled myself up onto a bridge. I waited for my legs to stop shaking, and then took a deep breath and looked around. The bridge connected to a series of other wooden bridges, dozens of huts scattered between. An entire village in the sky.

  I heard Trigve climb up behind me, his feet landing lightly on the wooden planks. The others had crossed the bridge and were entering a large, circular wooden building at the end, its conical roof twisting up toward the clouds.

  I began to walk slowly toward it, one foot in front of the other, my hands gripping the rope railing. I flinched each time the wood creaked beneath me. The wind was stronger up in the trees, and the black leaves of the Scorch Trees twitched against me as I moved.

  Sage exited the large hut and smiled when she spotted me creeping slowly toward her, Trigve a step behind. She ran down the bridge, took my hand in hers, and started chanting a prayer. She called to the wind, the birds, and the clouds, and then she brushed one finger down each side of my face.

  My fear left, snap, like a twig breaking underfoot.

  I let go of the rope, straightened, and smiled. I could stare down now without terror, and I gasped at the beauty of the trees and the sea.

  “Grew black wings and soared up high,” I said.

  “Sailed through the clouds, and scraped the sky.” Trigve, voice deep and clear.

  Sage laughed. “Witch on the fly, witch on the fly…”

  Mother Hush’s hut, despite the name, was a cavernous, circular space, almost as large as a Great Hall. I followed Sage through several sections, separated only by long strands of tiny seashells—they clattered softly as we moved through them.

  Sea witches were everywhere, young and old, ranging in age from tottering infants to white-haired women like Siggy. Some wove wool thread on large wooden looms, some baked bread near a giant hearth, some stained wool the color of sea foam, some prayed near an open window. They all wore green wool skirts and let their hair fall loosely down their backs.

  The thick branch of a Scorch Tree rose up through a hole cut in the center of the floor and stretched out through another opening in the roof. It gave the hut a living feel, as if we were North-Fairies, building our homes inside ancient oaks. I felt the heat emanating from the tree, a soft wave of warmth. I held my hands up, palms out, and soaked it in like sunshine.

  Runa, Ovie, and Juniper joined me at the tree, joy pouring off Juniper like perfume. Aarne and Sasha appeared from behind a curtain of seashells, Aarne’s eyes wide and excited. Sasha had shed some of her quiet sadness as well and she looked around the hut with interest.

  A few witches recognized Juniper and nodded to her. Sage and the other Watchers had gone to fetch Mother Hush, so we stood near the tree, waiting. Some of the witches smiled at us, and some looked at us curiously, and some tranquilly went about their work.

  After a few moments, a middle-aged witch approached us and gestured at our shredded clothing. “I will wash and mend those for you if you remove them.”

  She motioned to another witch, a younger girl of about twelve. The girl left the hut and returned shortly, holding out several folded garments on smooth, freckled arms and smiling shyly.

  I took off my boots, dropped my cloak, then my ax, and started to strip down to my leggings. When I was done, I tossed aside my bloodstained Mercy-clothing and gave my tunic a kick, glad to be rid of it. I slipped into the clean Sea Witch tunic, and the wool smelled like apples and fresh air.

  I turned and caught a flash of Ovie’s scar before she pulled the witch tunic over her head—it was thin and pink, stretching from her lower ribs to her navel. Juniper had once speculated that Ovie had gotten it in the same battle that took her eye.

  Trigve and Aarne were given new tunics as well. Trigve’s thick linen trousers were finely woven and had escaped the wrath of the Thiss thorns, but his tunic was ripped in four places. He dropped his fur and stripped to the waist. Aarne did the same.

  I bent down and gathered our tunics into a pile. “There’s no need to mend our old clothing,” I said to the witch. I walked over to the large hearth and threw them in.

  I watched our plain, bloodstained Mercy-tunics go up in flames, and smiled.

  All the death we’d dealt in that clothing, all the bloodstains … gone. I wished I could burn our cloaks as well, but we couldn’t afford new ones, and we’d need something to c
over us with winter coming on.

  I felt a shift in the air, a quiet buzz. The witches looked up, their eyes on the doorway.

  Mother Hush.

  She was tall, taller than Runa even, at least six feet. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, despite her years. Her nose was long and straight, and her blond-green hair was loose, flowing in waves around a pointed chin. In her right hand, she held a thick walking stick made of driftwood, like the Watchers’ wands.

  Mother Hush was regal and beautiful. I’d expected this. But something about her also felt … timeless, like sea and sun and stars.

  She walked toward us and came to a stop in front of me. She bent her head, and I bent mine. She straightened, and so did I.

  “Do you believe in the sea goddess, Jute?” she asked. Her expression was serene, but her gaze was bright and sharp.

  “I do.”

  “Do you believe that sea magic is the only good and pure magic and that all other magic is false and corrupt?”

  I paused.

  Magic.

  Siggy had taught me to pray to Valkree … but she also used to say that prayers were as intangible as air.

  On sorcery, she had nothing to say at all.

  I echoed her sentiments on prayer, but I did believe there was something more in the world, something greater than us Vorse and what we understood. Call it what you will.

  “I believe in sea magic,” I said. “And all magic.”

  “Good.” She smiled then, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Then you are free to stay as long as you like.”

  She turned and embraced Juniper and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was, it made Juniper smile and the tip of her nose turn pink.

  * * *

  We held a death service that evening for Gunhild. It was short and simple, with Mother Hush presiding. Sasha sang an old song, one of bravery and loyalty, and Juniper said a special prayer reserved for those who fall in battle and remain unburned.

  Sasha did not cry. She was a Mercy. She was Vorse.

  Afterward, we feasted on a wooden platform built off the side of Mother Hush’s hut. I sat on a bench, elbows on the table, surrounded by witches and Mercies, and listened to the sound of the sea far below, waves hitting sand. The night air smelled of salt and the slightly burnt scent of the Scorch Trees.

  Mother Hush sat at the far end of the long wooden table. Sage was with us, between Juniper and Ovie. In the distance, I could see other women and children eating at smaller tables outside smaller huts, candles burning across the treetops like stars. Black Scorch leaves brushed my limbs when the wind blew and left warm traces down my skin.

  Sage lifted a pitcher and poured rosy wine into wooden mugs, and then ladled cool white almond soup into black wooden bowls. A younger witch, dimpled and graceful, set a large, covered clamshell in front of me—it held a whole cooked fish, spiced with salt and pepper and thyme.

  “Here.” Juniper picked up a small, corked bottle. She removed the cork and dripped golden-green oil onto my soup, and then my fish. “It’s pressed from olives.”

  “Olives?”

  “Small green fruits that grow in Iber.” Juniper smiled, and her whole face shone.

  She was home. She was happy.

  I sipped the wine, and it was tart, clean, and refreshing. It warmed my throat as it slipped down, just as the Scorch leaves warmed my skin.

  I’d had wine once before. A year before, we had Mercy-killed a jarl’s sickly wife. She screamed and scolded right up until her last breath. Afterward, the sad-eyed jarl took us into his Great Hall, poured a honey-colored wine into a silver goblet, and handed it to me. He poured another for himself and drank it in one long gulp. “To her death,” he’d said. “May she never rise again.”

  I tried the witch soup, and then the fish. They tasted of sun and sand, instead of snow and cold. I ate cheerfully and heartily. We all did. After I’d licked my plates clean, I heaved a deep sigh of contentment. I began to lazily look around at the witch huts scattered through the leaves, candles twinkling, green-clad women talking in low voices, children laughing.

  So this was life in the Merrows.

  Juniper picked up the bottle of olive oil and dribbled it onto her second helping of the soup. Next to her, Aarne reached over and stole something from Sasha’s plate, and she smiled. The service for Gunhild had lifted her spirits. It was done, her friend was gone, and she and her son were safe again. Now she could heal.

  I’d begged for her forgiveness earlier in the day, while Aarne and the Mercies explored the treetop huts with Trigve. I went down on one knee before her, bent my head, and put my fist on my heart. It was our fault that her friend had died, even if Gunhild had a score to settle with Scathe from long before.

  Sasha had embraced me, kissed my cheek, and called me her Death Sister.

  Because of us, she was now a Mercy on the run. She couldn’t return to the death trade, not with Jarl Keld out for blood. And she couldn’t follow us into the Red Willow Marsh, either—she’d never risk putting Aarne in the Cut-Queen’s path.

  I hoped I could find a place for her and her son before we moved on—somewhere that would see them through the winter and keep them safe for as long as they required it.

  Trigve reached across me for more wine and drank his third cupful in one long, thirsty swallow. Ovie winked at Trigve and poured another mug for herself as well.

  “This isn’t Vorse wine,” she said. “It’s far too delicate.”

  Sage smiled, and it made her look so much like Juniper that my heart skipped a beat. “We trade with passing ships,” she said. “There are several Iber captains who know of the Merrows.” Juniper nodded. “They stop here on their way to Elshland, and we take them in for a few nights. We give them our prayers in trade for olive oil and perfumes and nuts and spices.”

  “Prayers.” Runa laughed. “Anyone can say a prayer. I think the sailors are making a bad bargain of it.”

  Juniper put down her wooden spoon and met Runa’s gaze. “Our prayers guard the ships from storms. They never sink, not when they are under our protection.”

  Sage nodded at this, as did all the other witches near us, and Runa wisely kept her mouth shut.

  I didn’t know why Runa liked to goad Juniper. Something about Juniper’s sincerity and sweetness rubbed her the wrong way. Perhaps she envied the Sea Witch, especially now, when we’d seen all that Juniper had left behind to take up with us.

  Juniper leaned over the table and poured some more wine for Runa. Always the peacemaker. “My father was an Iber sailor,” she said. “The witches take lovers when the mood strikes them. The men come, share a witch’s bed, and then sail away a few days later. We usually give birth to girls here in the Merrows, but there have been a few witch-boys. They take to the sea as soon as they are old enough—it’s in their blood, I suppose.”

  She looked at Trigve. “You are the only man here at the moment.”

  Aarne pounded a fist on the table, and Juniper turned to him and smiled. “Sorry, Aarne. You and Trigve are the only men here.”

  Trigve just laughed at this, a deep rumble in the back of his throat. He glanced left, then right, and eyed up the nearby witches. “Where is your mother, Juniper? Can we meet her?”

  Juniper flinched.

  Sage turned to her sister, whispered something in her ear, and then kissed her temple.

  “My mother died.” Juniper’s wispy voice drifted down the table, and several other witches turned our way. “Over two years ago. The Sea Witches never get ill, and the snow sickness doesn’t touch the Merrows. She died from a broken heart.”

  Juniper paused. “My mother brought an Iber sailor to her bed that summer. His name was Sebastian, and she fell in love with him. He left at dawn on the third day, back to his ship … and her joy went with him. She withered slowly, day by day, like a bowl of fruit left to rot.”

  Juniper’s cheeks were flushed, and her gray eyes glossy. “This is why I left. I couldn’t get past my grief. Mother
Hush told me to wander the world until I made peace with death. She said I was at risk of dying of heartache, just as my mother had.”

  “So this is why you became a Boneless Mercy?” Runa asked.

  Juniper nodded. “I set off alone and expected to stay alone. But the gods sent me you.”

  Our end of the table was quiet for a while after Juniper’s tale. It had been her choice to tell us this story from her past, and we treated it like the gift it was.

  The moon rose higher in the sky, fat and full and bright, and a wave of peace spread over us. Juniper seemed relieved after sharing her tale, and when her sister whispered to her again, she let out a quiet, silvery laugh.

  The good food, the wine, the sea breeze, the gentle voices of the other witches … It soothed me.

  A feeling of serenity came from being up in the treetops. We were living in the clouds. I wondered if this was how the dead felt, when their spirits floated up to Holhalla as their bodies burned to ash.

  I’d experienced joy before. Not often, but enough to know what it was, enough to ache for it late at night when I sat quietly beside the fire. Joy was different from peace, though. Peace was slower, calmer, and lasted longer. I hadn’t known this kind of tranquility could exist.

  I wished Siggy could have visited these witches. I wished she and Iona could have spent their last years here together.

  Trigve leaned his shoulder into mine. I turned to him, and his hair brushed my cheek. It flowed loose around his shoulders, soft and dark. I undid my own braid, shook my hair down, and sighed.

  I felt Trigve’s contentment, felt it emanating from his skin, muscle, blood, bone, and it relaxed me even more.

  The wind picked up, and the voices died down. The youngest of the witch-girls slid sleepily off the benches and curled up next to the wiry, sweet-looking witch-hounds that were sleeping under the table.

  Trigve filled my mug with more wine. I drank deeply—deeply enough to lose my sense of place and time. At some point we all moved down to the wooden floor of the platform, backs against the black wooden railing, faces toward the stars. I reached forward, wrapped my arms around Runa, and pulled her into me. She stiffened, and then relaxed. I pressed my face into her hair.